


Summertime Blues

by Edwardina



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Barebacking, Car Sex, Community: blindfold_spn, Established Relationship, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-20
Updated: 2010-07-20
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:34:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,290
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2293769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edwardina/pseuds/Edwardina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: John/Dean (15-17) established relationship: John has been away for a while on a hunt, when he gets back Dean is desperate to get fucked but is too obedient to ask for it himself. John takes Dean out to get some groceries or something but on the way he pulls over to the side of the road and has Dean ride his bare cock. He comes inside Dean and then feeds it to him afterwards as it drips out of Dean's ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summertime Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Written for blindfold_spn and originally posted [here](http://community.livejournal.com/blindfold_spn/2172.html?thread=2039932#t2039932).

Dean tries to ignore the stuff that makes him ache for his dad - the shaving kit left on the bathroom counter, the flannel shirt left slung over the back of the chair by the room's door. Dad's been gone longer than a couple of weeks before, and they survived. He survived. 

Besides, Sam needs him. It's summertime and there's no homework for him to do, so Dean takes him to the nearest library and lets him take out a card so he can read some local high school's summer reading list like the little geek he is. They walk three miles into town to go see dollar movies and buy Otter Pops from the nearest Gas Mart and try to freeze them in a red cooler full of ice. The family two doors down has a hot teenage daughter, corn-fed blonde with some serious tan lines. It takes Dean all evening one night to get her name out of her, splashing around in the pool and buying her Diet Dr. Peppers from the vending machine: Michelle. Dean sings "Michelle, my belle, these are words that go together well..." on a loop and drives Sam up the wall, and Sam puts himself to bed with a book every night, grumbling.

The cell phone never rings.

Dean stares at it. Wills it to. Wants it to be dad calling him to say, "Be home soon, son." But it never makes a peep. He tries not to think about it.

It's 12:30 am and Dean's watching an old _Star Trek_ on Nick at Nite when he hears the struggle of a key in the lock of their front door. His shotgun's in his hand before he even registers pushing himself up off the saggy roll-out couch, thoughts rapid-fire in his head. The motel manager - the maid, ignoring the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the doorknob - some dumbass trying to get into the wrong room - Michelle - _something bad, a monster_ \--

"Dad," Dean breathes, stashing the gun back behind the chair again as Dad elbows his way in.

Dazedly, Dean takes stock without even realizing he's doing it. No blood, not that he can see. No limping. He hasn't trimmed his beard since the last time he was here, Dean can tell - he watched him do it. He looks exhausted, but he always looks exhausted. It doesn't mean anything. More than anything, the smell of Dad overtakes him, familiar and sweaty in this heat, grimy from the road.

"The phone didn't ring," Dean says. "I didn't know you were comin'."

"Take this, Dean," Dad says, and Dean does, heart in his throat. Dad's duffel. It's heavy, but Dean's much stronger than he used to be, and besides, the weight of all the stuff he knows Dad takes with him when he leaves is comforting to have back. Salt, he knows, amulets, knives, guns.

"Gimmie the other one," he offers, and lets Dad load him down with the lighter pack of clothes and stuff, too, carries them off to the bedroom, where it's dark and the AC unit is blowing on HI.

Sam's asleep, he thinks off-handedly, starting to nearly choke on the feelings winding up in him. Please, Dad.

When he emerges, Dad's leaning back against the door, rubbing his face. His hair is a mess, too-long just like his beard. He's probably been sleeping in the car most of the time, Dean realizes, and he probably aches like a son of a bitch, and needs to sleep in a real bed.

"Sammy?" he asks, sensing - or just hearing - Dean back in his orbit.

"Good. Fine. Sleepin'," says Dean, trying hard not to sound as desperate as he feels. It's so easy with girls like Michelle. They probably won't let him do anything, but if they do, it's Miller time, it's bonus, it's his lucky day. But they don't do what Dad does. They don't make him feel like that, all knotted up and intense and... 

"You boys behave yourselves?"

...like a kid.

"Yes, sir."

"Any trouble?"

"No, sir."

"Any word from Jim?"

"No, sir."

Dad reaches out, gets fingers into Dean's hair and ruffles it gently, hand heavy, and Dean almost busts inside, can't keep himself from breathing like Dad's hand is on his dick and not just his head. He looks up at Dad almost reluctantly, not sure if he's being pathetically obvious or not. Dad can probably read his mind.

Dad's smiling at him, though. He's got bags under his eyes and the weight of the world on his shoulders, but it's a smile.

"Now tell me. You boys have everything you need for another day? When I hit the mattress, it's gonna be for a long time."

Dean doesn't want to say no to his dad, not even about this.

"We got Otter Pops," he says lamely.

"There's a Wal-Mart a couple miles up the road," Dad says, taking him by the shoulder. "Let's get some actual sustenance. Then we can rest."

It's electric out at one in the morning, the air so humid it's fogged up all the windows at the motel, the neon of bar signs in the distance the only thing Dean can see when they pull out on the road. The car smells so much like Dad, a smell the motel room had lost after just a couple of hours but that Dean's covered in now. The radio's off, so all he can hear is the highway and Dad's breaths and his own heartbeat, and the silence between them is half comfortable (it's relief, too, all kinds of relief that their family's together again, and safe, and that Dad's job is over and he'll be resting soon) and half nerve-wracking. At least, for Dean. He's half-hard in his jeans. He can't help it. Dad being right there when Dean had no idea he was even going to get in tonight is just so much to take in. He wasn't prepared. He doesn't have a grip on himself. He felt so cool and easy-going lounging on the steps of the motel pool with that chick, making her laugh and splash him, but Dad is just - on a whole other level.

"Something you want to tell me?" Dad asks, out of nowhere, jerking Dean out of an awkward squirm.

"No!" comes out of his mouth.

"No," Dad repeats.

"No, sir."

"Hm," Dad grunts at him, and no one can pack a punch in a single noise like Dad can. Half a minute later, Dad's turning the wheel, pulling off into a picnic area where there's a covered set of picnic tables and green trash drums bracketing it. The car goes into park and the lights cut off, leaving the picnic table in relative darkness. The feeling cutting through Dean is sharply on edge between _so busted, in trouble now_ and _maybe?_

"You need something, son?" Dad asks, flat-out, giving him this measuring look.

All Dean can do is flush red and look down.

"Need takin' care of, don't you?" Dad says, and Dean can't read his voice, it's impossible, somewhere between drill sergeant and Daddy - the Daddy that taught Dean to swim and flipped quarters into the shallow end for him to dive after. The Daddy that used to give him bear hugs and let Dean sit in his lap to watch baseball games and kiss him on the head.

"Open the glovebox," Dad says, and Dean does, still straddling the feeling of being in trouble. On top of the usual hundred maps, there's a travel-size tube of Astroglide, lit up yellow by the light in the box, and it practically slides off the pile and into his hand, like a little present for him.

"Dad," he whispers.

"Right here, right now, Dean," Dad says firmly, and Dean hears it like an order and permission at once and bolts into action, rustling his t-shirt up and out of the way and scrabbling to get his jeans undone. He's so embarrassingly hard in them, so humiliated that Dad can tell how bad he wants to get fucked just seeing him, smelling him, being around him again.

"What about condoms?" he asks, 'cause usually they're careful not to make a mess. It's safer. Dad says so. Dean always uses them.

But Dad just looks at him. "No condoms this time."

_Oh my fucking God._

Dean's jeans end up in the footwell, but he's barely got his boxer-briefs off and they hang around one knee as he crawls up onto his dad's lap, self-conscious and dying for it, for his dad to be balls-deep in him, fucking him like he's a girl. His fingers are almost useless as they dig at his dad's belt. No girl could want his dad's dick as bad as he does.

"Hurry up, son," Dad says roughly, and grabs at Dean's hips with controlling hands, keeping him from backing up against the steering wheel. "Get my cock in you. I know what you need."

His hands slide back and grab Dean's ass cheeks, opening them up lewdly, and Dean's body wants to buck in orgasm right then and there, even as he gets Dad's zipper down in a frenzy and tugs and pulls at the wide-open denim, digs his fingers in to find his dad's cock. He can feel it, hot with blood and hardening for him, to him this monstrous and perfect dick more powerful-looking and beautiful than any dick he'd seen in magazines or locker rooms, and he can't help but think, like always, _Dad made me with it._

There's a cold, wet, slippery shock, then - Dad's finger, wet with lube and sliding over his hole. Dean yelps, half in surprise and half just because he can't believe this, that Dad's going to let him get fucked out where anyone could find them, in the car, in the middle of the night. When Dad's finger thrusts insistently up into his ass, it just feels fucking sexy.

"You're ready for it," Dad says, not even a question.

"Yes, sir," Dean garbles, dying. Dad doesn't even know how ready he is, especially to feel everything bare inside him.

"What are you going to do, Dean?"

"Get your dick in me," he responds deliriously, "get fucked..."

Dad's finger-fucking him, now, and sometimes, that would be more than enough, would get Dean off all over the papery motel sheets, Dad just fingering him up the ass.

"That's right. Gonna ride it, Dean. Right here on top of me. You hear me?"

"Yes, sir! Yes, sir. Please, Dad."

"Gonna be quick?" Dad asks, and Dean knows they have to be - that it probably will be, they haven't gotten to fuck in what feels like so long.

"It'll be a quickie," Dean promises, and hears Dad's rasp of a laugh.

"Yeah, it will be. Got a big load I've been savin' up for you," Dad's voice is going dark, nasty, and Dean can't help it, he shudders relentlessly, halfway to coming at the tone, let alone the mere idea of Dad's jizz touching him up inside for real. "Sit on my dick, buddy."

Dad's cock opens him up like a finger, two fingers, three fingers can't, feels too big and too scary, but Dean sinks to the root of it, slick inside and hanging onto Dad's shoulders.

"There you go," Dad whispers, and their cheeks rasp together momentarily, Dad's beard shocking and comforting at the same time, the smell of him the most familiar thing Dean knows. _Daddy,_ from his earliest memory. "Fuck yourself on it, kiddo. Make it feel good."

Dean whimpers, grinds himself wetly, his own dick rubbing up under Dad's t-shirt against the trail of dark hair under his navel, and Dad puts arms around him, keeps him from flying off the handle. It's overwhelming. Too much. Dad's dick inside him, Dad underneath him and all around him, Dad with him and taking care of him in a way he never took care of Sammy. Dean explodes so quick, too soon, not even fully adjusted to the feeling of his ass being opened and filled, and he comes up Dad's stomach in a feverish haze, creaming bare, hot, sweaty skin in jerks of seed.

"Whoa, Dean," Dad whispers, and grabs at the back of Dean's neck, fingernails scratching through the scruff of hair there. Dean's body spasms without his permission; his breath hiccoughs. He feels Dad straining taut and kicks his hips into gear again, sliding himself along his dad's dick, the noise of their sweat and his own jizz between them making it sound so wet.

"Do it, Dad," he begs, forehead tucked between Dad's neck and shoulder. "Oh, God, please. Want your load in me for real..."

"Gonna come in your ass, Dean," Dad says, and it sounds like a _threat_ , so low and mean like Dad can sound sometimes.

"Do it, do it," Dean begs, and squishes pathetically as Dad locks him down with both arms and _does it_ , shoots off in him. It's so surreal, knowing his dick is bare, knowing the wad Dad's loading him up with is the same that made him, and Dean's aware enough to know that's an extra helping of really messed up on top of the plate of messed up that is his relationship with his dad, but he doesn't give a fuck. He loves it. Dad fills him up for real for the first time, and it's so much that it slips out somehow, is pushed out by Dad's dick as it pulses.

He doesn't have to say anything. Dad's hand slides down his spine, dips low to stop it, and Dean doesn't hesitate to open his mouth for it.

Dad can definitely read his mind.


End file.
